


War Bells : A Resistance Story

by moustache_bonnet



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/F, Girl with Psycho Weapon, Headcanon, Multi, Pre-Star Wars: The Force Awakens, Resistance, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-25
Updated: 2020-02-24
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:48:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22402090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moustache_bonnet/pseuds/moustache_bonnet
Summary: She was Kaz Maxa; daughter of Rhysa, a New Republic Defense Fleet commander; granddaughter of Tayshin, the Cloud-rider. Born on Kijimi and grown to become one of the smartest explosives experts in the Outer Rim, she commited her scoundrel life to staying out of unnecessary conflicts. Then the conflict comes to her and she realizes there are more important things in the galaxy than neutrality.
Relationships: Jessika Pava/Original Character(s), Jessika Pava/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 5





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> The first chapter mentions an emergency election on Akiva, which originally took place in 34 ABY (canon novel Resistance Reborn by Rebecca Roanhorse). For the purposes of this fanfiction, it is set a few years earlier, around 31 - 32 ABY, to create a broader window for K's story.
> 
> I am not a native English speaker, so any grammar suggestions and feedback are appreciated, either in comments or as asks on Tumblr (moustache-bonnet.tumblr.com), where you can also find additional info on Kaz, as well as edits.
> 
> More notes to be added.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter I. had been updated on 02-08-2020, correcting several spelling, grammar a factual errors.

_the brassy night sky bright_  
_it's the very first twilight_  
_not sliced up by dead probe lights_

‒ Royal Bangs: _War Bells_

###### Chapter I: Prologue

_Planet Akiva, Outer Rim Territories, 31 ABY_

Last pull of the hyperdrive lever had brought her just several thousand kilometers from the planet Akiva. The ship slipped into an easy glide as she entered the sector, her solar collectors unfolding.

Against the vastness of the universe that was surrounding her, she seemed small and vulnerable; a battered retrofit police transport that still remembered the Old Republic. She was almost completely stripped of her original fire power and unnecessary load, both outside and inside, to comfortably accommodate one crew member and as much cargo as she could take.

The modified bay was now empty though, or so it would seem to an untrained eye, filled only with a low hum of the engine. In the cockpit, the lone pilot stretched, dangling her legs playfully. Her limbs were aching to touch ground. All she could think about were the humid akivan days, when the air was sweet and heavy with the scent of blooming Asuka trees. After weeks on the sandy Savareen, it would be a most welcome change.

Even from here the view of the planet was stunning ‒ the spacecraft looked down at its dayside, the globe casting eerie shadows across its rings. The skies seemed to be clear and quiet, contradicting Akiva's usual stormy climate, spotted with minuscule ships hurrying on and off the planet's surface. At this time of the day, it was crowded out there.

Daydreaming, the pilot fiddled with switches, her fingers tracing the sideboards built into the cockpit's paneling. She was at ease, content, only mildly annoyed by the endless hours in the seat, for it wasn't long now until she would finish this journey and take a well deserved time off. After she would turn the ship in, a good payment awaited her, and then a hot dinner, and a bed somewhere nice.

Blaring alarm of the attitude subsystem made her snap out of her musings ‒ as she was reaching low orbit, the computer was ready to engage the landing sequence.

Slowing the craft down, she readied her comms to hail the client, but before she could begin the transmission, a chime followed by an unknown modulated voice echoed in her headphones.

“This is Myrra spaceport docking controller to unknown _LAAT_ slash _le_ gunship class vessel, your transponder code is unregistered within the First Order system. To proceed with docking, please transmit chain code and state the purpose of stay.”

This alerted the pilot.

First Order? What the kriff went down on Akiva while she was gone? Hardly a year has passed since she visited and the client didn't mention any complications during their brief conversation a month earlier either. She looked over her shoulder, piercing the wall that separated the cockpit from the bay with a concerned glare.

She wasn't meant to land at the city docks but a little farther south in the jungle, at a designated meeting point.

If she registered the ship, it could mean all sorts of trouble for her client and, in the end, for her.

She barely finished the thought when the docking controller restated his request, now a little irritated, “Unregistered vessel, I repeat, provide chain code and purpose of landing or docking ticket will not be issued.”

Her heart started beating faster. She had no other choice if they already had the ship's transponder tracked. It would be stupid to run and even more so to try and land elsewhere ‒ where there was First Order, there were TIE patrols. She sighed heavily and flicked the communications control. Adjusting the microphone at her mouth, she replied.

“This is _Tainted_ responding and apologizing for the delay, I'm currently experiencing sensor and comms array issues,” she lied. “Primary purpose ship import for a third party, I am transmitting the code now.”

Her fingers ran over the display, selecting the identification data for one Jo Bast, a 30-year-old human female from Corellia. The pilot cringed at the name, cursing herself for creating all the aliases in a hurry, during a particularly hard night at a bar.

There was a short pause filled only with static which caused her to tense up more. She feared her response took far too long for some impatient officer's liking. Then she heard the voice again: “Copy _Tainted_ , any passengers on board?”

“No, sir. It's just me.”

“Noted. Proceed docking at bay five.”

The pilot let out a long exhale of relief as she removed the headset, but her body was stiff with anticipation. The client won't like this.

She let the automat maneuver the ship through the planet's atmosphere, manually stabilizing the sullen vibrations of the fuselage as it was becoming accustomed to the change in environment.

From above, Myrra resembled a maze of river channels and tight streets; the rebuilt Satrap's Palace its shining centre. The spaceport was occupying the better part of what once was an edge of the industrial district, but has grown throughout the years into a shanty town, various structures squatting around the grey mass of the hangars.

Following provided coordinates, the navicomputer led _Tainted_ over and inside one of these buildings, its hangar door swallowing the small gunship like a fly.

With a wheeze of the atmospheric thrusters and a lurch, she landed on one of the pods at the docking bay number five.

The hangar was vast, open into the city on two sides and thus full of natural light. The construction used dura- and transparisteel which were essential for local architecture, although have proven somewhat impractical in case of the spaceport when combined with the clumsiness of both the pilots and the staff. The transparisteel panes were locally missing or were swapped with more sturdy materials, the various textures creating an overall eclectic space.

After deactivating all the ship's systems, the girl unclasped the seat belt and pulled a lever at the side of her chair, letting it slide to the front of the cockpit. Then she slipped through a manhole behind.

Now she must act quick.

Snatching a drill from the obligatory tool cabinet and throwing herself to the knees at the starboard side of the ship's interior, she set to work.

With a few skilled moves, she opened the customized internal plating to reveal a spacious hideout. She took out a backpack filled with all her personal belongings, propping it against a wall, and a holster belt.

Gearing up, she eyed the crates of stolen supplies lined neatly inside the stash. The true reason for her venture, the cargo contained hundreds of pounds of old parts and sonic detonators proudly bearing their original Imperial serial numbers. For her own sake, the pilot sure prayed to the Maker that the ship's ancient ECM still had enough integrity to put up with whatever crazy sensor tech it were soon to encounter.

She activated the jamming system and then reached back into the gap for a blaster pistol, which she strapped into a holster on her thigh. Drilling the plating back, making sure nothing looked out of place, she took a few deep breaths. _Okay, let's do this._

After carefully replacing the drill, she punched the rear ramp control. With an unpleasant whirr, the door opened. The pilot threw the prepared baggage across her back and exited the craft, a short First Order customs officer clad in a dark grey uniform already waiting outside, his foot tapping nervously.

_Dosh, are their entire troops twitchy?_

Catching a better glimpse of her surroundings, it didn't surprise her much though. The bay was bursting in its seams ‒ people running around, stumbling over machinery, bumping into static Stormtrooper guards who lingered about awkwardly.

“I apologize again for the initial delay. The akivan docking procedures didn't used to be that thorough, it startled me a little,” she said as she stood before the man, raising her voice to be heard over all the clamor, trying to play it friendly. He was clenching a datapad, his nostrils flared like a bull's. He struck her as the arrogant, irritable sort, humiliated by his shitty placement on a shitty Outer Rim planet. She hated him already.

“I understand the new rules might be confusing since Akiva is a fairly new asset to the First Order protectorates,” he said.

She blinked at the word, licking her upper lip. “Protectorates, huh? I guess the famous satraps of Myrra shuffled their cards once again.”

The officer flashed her a questioning look, like it was suspicious to know too much detail about the ever changing political circumstances of the galaxy, so she was quick to add: “I don't mean to pry, I genuinely couldn't care less. I'm just curious. It's been some time since I visited.”

“There was an emergency election, the Satrapy voted the previous governor out and found a more… open minded candidate instead,” he explained.

_Open minded_ , she thought. _Sure_. Some governors simply valued the prosperity of their business more than the prosperity of their people.

“Now, I don't have all day for you, if you haven't noticed, the docks are busy today,” he snapped.

“I'm sorry, I ‒” the pilot started but seeing how absurdly nervous he was, it occurred to her that maybe she could use all this commotion to her advantage.

“Well?”

“I really had to check if everything's alright back there. The client would kill me if anything was amiss, he's a collector, you see. Olden days tech. His guys found her on the Jakku graveyard,” she rambled as elaborately as she could manage with the lump in her throat, pointing a thumb over her shoulder.

The officer pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. Then he paused. Looking up and assessing _Tainted_ from head to toe, his mean demeanor softened for a second. “That a weird collectible though, she's missing a lot.”

“What can I say, beggars can't be choosers,” the pilot shrugged, but felt her heart pounding hard against her chest. "I get paid shit money, too. But mind you, imagine being this lazy ‒ the only decent ship you can afford is that piece of junk and you're still willing to pay someone to bring it to you, while you do fuck all ‒"

"All right, all right!” the man yelped, his voice ridiculously high pitched with impatience. “Are you carrying any weapons except that blaster?"

She smiled her most polite smile and said, “No, sir.”

“Code slip, please.”

Moment of truth.

She presented the piece of tech with a sweating but steady hand. He scanned it using the datapad, checking whether the information provided earlier was correct. The computer took a moment, then beeped in agreement; the pilot's audible exhale was stifled by some ship's drive firing up. The man handed the slip back together with a puck.

“Because you stated a third party ship import, you will have to pay for the docking ticket in advance at the hangar gate. If you choose not to, the craft will be clamped and only released upon fine payment. Any questions?”

She shook her head no but he didn't really wait for an answer.

“Enjoy your stay on Akiva,” he snarled.

And like that, the officer was storming off again to inspect a heavy freighter that landed on a nearby pod. Its Ithorian pilot seemed not to give a shit about the correct customs procedures and started to unload his cargo as soon as the ship touched the ground. The Imp was furious.

Her heart made a little jump. With all the turmoil she was witnessing around her, _Tainted_ would be picked clean and the pilot would be long gone before the staff would even get to scanning the allegedly empty ship. Or so she hoped.

Readjusting the bag on her back, she cleared the bay and stepped out into the crowded streets of Myrra. The damp air was filled with all the smells of a major city and the sounds, the chatter of the people and the buzz of the small _bala-bala_ speeders threading way through the pedestrians.

Letting her body relax again as she blended with the masses, becoming invisible, she felt almost blissful.

She didn't pay the ticket on her way out, guessing it was not worth the trouble ahead.


	2. Pok's Place

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the previous chapter we followed a young pilot's attempt to smuggle a shipment of stolen Imperial goods onto Akiva, only to find the planet swarmed with First Order officers. Despite the initial confusion, she managed to land and clear the customs procedures safely. Now it's time to contact the client and turn the loot in.

######  **Chapter II: Pok's Place**

_Planet Akiva, Outer Rim Territories, 31 ABY_

The two akivan suns hung high over the sky that day, the surface below hot as it could get.

While the locals were dressed accordingly in their light weaves and head covers, Kaz Maxa - for that was our pilot's true name - was starting to sweat profoundly under the weight of her backpack as she navigated the recognizable streets of the city. She could've sworn the load on her shoulder was heavier with each step. Although she had pulled her hair back and stripped to a vest, the upper part of her sturdy flight suit draped and knotted around her waist, it was of no use. She was flush and huffing within moments after she exited the spacedocks.

She didn't mind much though.

As opposed to Savareen, the air in Myrra wasn't dry and unpleasant; the river channels and small pools of murky rainwater emanating a blissful aura of coolness, attracting local kids to play around them when the shadows of the jungle were too short to provide a refuge. The heat could also be easily avoided in the climate controlled public houses of the city, unlike the ever-present crowds of people, droids, vehicles, and the most recent inhabitants, the brooding soldiers.

Kaz followed the flow of masses until she reached the Communal communication center, an unobtrusive dome-like structure not far from the docks. Even in there it was terribly loud as the callers were speaking over one another, not giving a damn about being overheard. It was very different to the hushed shady places she was used to.

Once there, she contacted the client through a public comlink. Judging by the tone of his voice and the little she could see of his fuzzy holo-form, the client was surprised to find she had arrived without him knowing. He didn't question her much though. Instead he agreed to meet in an hour in a well known establishment so they could speak freely.

To pass the time, Kaz trotted lazily along the main canal of the river Kora Biedies, admiring the colorful market stalls that were bending under the weight of commodities. In her mind, she was already spending the credits she didn't yet have - spotting a sack of muja fruit, energy emitters for a reasonable price, even a proximity fuse she could use later.

The vendors were well stocked, surrounded by buyers. There were people hurrying about. Kids played. Monks chanted their second day's prayers.

Nothing seemed out of place except the white plastoid suits that failed to blend into the crowd. It appeared that the people didn't mind these intruders much - they were used to strangers on Akiva after all - still an overall feeling of wariness and gloom hung in the air.

Kaz shifted her bag from one shoulder to the other and took a turn into a street that led her off from the main boulevard. The cantina to which she was heading was located in the back-alley quadrant of the city.

It was none other than the infamous Pok's Place.

Both Pok and the bar were a mystery no one ever had the courage to delve into. Nothing was really known about the Mon Calamari's past, but his elusive persona and deadly mechanical arm had instantly earned him respect in the back alleys, though he was most adored for his persistent fight against the Empire of old.

Pok, of course, was long gone by now, remembered only by the name and a flashy holo-sign reading ꞋNO IMPERIALSꞋ hung at the entrance. The “place” was now owned by a greedy Besalisks called Galus, who luckily shared his predecessor's grudge against oppressive regimes. Galus transformed the once quiet bar into a preposterous diner where servant droids outnumbered the patrons, the booze was expensive and the food awful; purposefully creating the perfect meeting point for anyone in a search for the anonymity of a crowd, for one reason or other.

When Kaz entered, the cantina was buzzing. She attentively pushed her way through the mass of bodies, her lip curling at the musty stench of sweat and cooking spices. When she was halfway through the locale, she spotted him sitting in one of the booths at the far end of the interior - the client. Not that the Ginmid was hard to notice, given the pale green colour of his skin and the ostensive percussive cannon on his shoulder. A smirk crept across her face.

“If I knew, I would've come dressed more nicely, too,” she teased as she came to stand at his side.

He looked up.

Knowing Tommet Sozach the way she did, Kaz could tell right away he wasn't pleased. When he spoke, his Basic was rough, complimenting his husky lisp. “Where the brix be my ship, Maxa? Because according to my boys, she sure ain't where you said she be.”

“She'd be there if you would've cared to mention the current… mood around here,” she hissed leaning close to him, meeting his scornful glare with her own. Then she took her spot at the table, with her back turned to the entrance. Something inside her stuffed backpack made an audible _plonk_ as she crashed it under their feet.

“Where be she, then?”

“Spacedocks,” she answered confidently, fixing him with her gaze. The thumping of her heart echoed in her ears as she swallowed.

Tommet gripped the edge of the table with both hands and leaned in, eyes narrow. “You pulling my legs?”

“Don't even _try_ to pin it on me - you should've warned me.”

He didn't need reminding what she was referring to. A mercenary who once led his own army against the Imperial troops, he sure wasn't happy to find himself in the midst of a space occupied by another self-proclaimed militia. He was as nervous about the whole situation as she was.

“I didn't know, did I? Arrived shortly before you and thought it was too late. I just kinda hoped you'd be more... inventive.” His criticisms faded into silence as they were approached by a servant droid. Despite his annoyance, Tommet was quick to order and pay for both of them.

When the droid retreated to fetch their drinks, Kaz produced a small datapad out of her bag and slid it across the tabletop. “Look, whatever happened, happened. Neither of us could anticipate this kind of blurrgshit. But you've seen what the situation is in the docks and I'm sure you will agree the ship can be cleared easily.” She reached out a hand and tapped her fingers on the datapad. “And once you do, you will find she is packed full of complimentary bolts.”

He grabbed the pad and studied the encrypted list of goods, but didn't seem too impressed. “You trying to top off the tanks here, kid?”

“It's not _my_ fault, Tommet,” she repeated, weighing every word carefully. “You know I would have taken precautions if I had known.”

Pursing his lips unhappily, he asked, “You activated the countermeasures?”

“Of course. All you need to do is to walk in there, show them the contract on that pad to prove your ownership and you can be off this planet before you say Bantha fodder. Though...” Suddenly, she remembered the docking ticket. With a pang of regret and a loud sigh, she pulled the puck out of her pocket, placing it in front of him.

His initial scoff turned into a genuine laughter. “Let me guess - didn't pay for it? Maker, Maxa, you're a fantastic thief, but you really need to work on your deliveries!” He kept roaring and Kaz felt embarrassment creep up her neck and cheeks.

Taking in a large breath to calm himself, the Ginmid rubbed his face with his pale fingers. He was now waging his odds. After a moment of consideration he said, “You're lucky I like you, kid. I take it. But I will only pay you third of what I promised.”

Kaz bit her bottom lip. She knew he was in the right, but the fantasy of leaving Myrra with an entire month worth of provisions that weren't ration packs was stronger than her sense of decorum.

“A half,” she tried.

“Third. Or you can keep the cargo and sell it elsewhere.”

The corners of her mouth fell a little. “Fine, old man. Have it your way.”

Their friendly handshake was interrupted by the servant droid plunging plates of warm spiced bread in front of them, followed by two pints of black ale. Kaz gingerly tucked in the food while the Ginmid watched her, amusement ghosting his face once again.

“It's good to see you, kid,” he said after a moment of silence.

“Yeah, you too,” Kaz nodded, eyeing the lump of steaming dough halfway to her mouth. Chewing slowly, she asked, “Since we're being sentimental, how's home?”

“When was the last time you been?”

 _Since the box with Enfys' mask arrived and the last Cloud-riders branded her dead_ was the first thing to cross her mind. The memory made her want to scream and she cursed herself for ever asking. Instead, she said firmly, “Six months ago. I left for a job shortly after the first troopers started to appear.”

Tommet paused, recollecting. “They taking our children.”

The statement was so unexpected and out of place it made Kaz snicker unconsciously. His features darkened. “I mean it, Maxa.”

“That's just street talk.” She gave him a judging look, tearing the last piece of bread into flakes just to have something to do with her fingers.

“That ain't street talk. They been snatching kids in front of spice shops and cantinas. Folks are freaking out,” he said. His voice was adamant, despair and anger blazing in his eyes, and Kaz knew he was telling the truth.

She heard rumors of the First Order taking younglings to increase the numbers of their reputed army, but she never really thought it to be true. Laying a hand on a child was off limits even among the scoundrels who raised her, that's why no slaver or syndicate was ever permitted to enter Kijimi City, and why parents often let their offspring roam freely unsupervised - it didn't matter whether you were a thief or a smuggler, whether you crossed the wrong person or you owed money, your kids were safe. Always. 

Until now, apparently. As she let the idea sink in, it sent a wave of dread down her stomach. She pushed away her plate.

“I'm sorry, I just - we've driven the bastards out for less,” Kaz said quietly, seeking reassurance.

But instead of a resolute call to arms, which the mercenary was notoriously famous for, he just shrugged. “It's different this time. There's a lot of them - nobody wants to get into more trouble than they're already in. A lot of people fled and are not coming back. I give the Imps a standard year tops before they try something.”

Kaz stared blankly at the man as he drank his ale, eyes fixed on something in her background.

“Dosh,” she cursed, feeling a strange unease settling over her whole being. She was irked by Tommet's indifference, yet she knew her own reaction wouldn't be much different if Kijimi wasn't her homeworld. Her usually sober mind was suddenly clouded by fury that she couldn't quite grasp or understand, and she hated it.

They sat for a while in silence, the Ginmid finishing both his drink and loaf. She noticed he was growing more distracted by the second, attributing it to the long pause in their conversation. He was a busy man, she knew.

Kaz gulped down the last of her ale, ready to relieve Tommet of his credits and be on her way.

“You been followed?” he asked suddenly, eyes darting back and forth between her face and the crowd behind.

She grimaced. “No. Why?”

“There's a male at the bar eyeing you up. Human. Facial fur.”

After a second of hesitation, thinking he would provide a little more detail, Kaz thrust her hands up in a wild gesture, arching a brow. “Is that supposed to tell me anything?”

Tommet growled and bared his incisors.

Then a voice rang across the cantina, calling her out by her real name, and her breath stuttered as she froze in place. “Maxa, is that you? Maker! Kaz Maxa!”

She exchanged a look with her companion, his eyes big as plates, hand cautiously placed on the band of his rifle. She swiveled to meet the figure of a broad, shaggy man who was quickly closing the distance between them, his arms thrown aside in a greeting.

“Do you possibly -” Kaz looked back to Tommet, “- know him?” Her question went unheard and unanswered for the guy disappeared, leaving but a small heap of credits beside his empty glass. She could see the top of his bald green head scuttering away, patrons stumbling as he bumped into them.

“Fuck,” she huffed, swiftly tucking the credit ingots in her backpack before the stranger arrived to tower over her.

“Incredible I should meet you here!” he beamed.

“I'm sorry, do I know you?” Kaz looked up questioningly while trying to figure a way out. She was exhausted and angry, with a lot to think about; the last thing she needed was some crackpot drawing too much attention to her.

“Yeah! It's Temmin, remember?”

She didn't. Seeing the doubtful scorn on her face, he tried again, although with much less enthusiasm, “Temmin Wexley? We met on Chandrila?”

Kaz shrugged and with a sharp annoyed sigh stood up. “Sorry.”

Swinging the bag over her shoulder, she set out to leave, but the man reached out his hand and moved to block her way. Her left hand shot up instinctively in a defensive gesture while the other snatched the blaster, ready to unsheath it.

“Hey, sorry. I didn't mean to -” he started apologetically, stepping to the side with the intuition of someone who experienced a fight or two before.

“Listen, I don't know you and I don't need any trouble,” Kaz said in a lowered voice, trying to maintain her calm. Heads started to turn in their direction.

“I'm _so_ sorry. I thought you'd remember me. Your mom introduced us when you came to see her that one time. At the base?”

Her heart skipped a beat at the mention of Rhysa. She scanned him. A memory from another life flashed through her mind, of a loud guy in a tight blue flight suit. It was like a distant dream. “What did you say your name was again?”

“Temmin Wexley? They call me Snap,” he repeated hesitantly. Kaz took her hand off the gun and crossed her arms over her chest, shoulders loosening.

“How can I help you, Snap?” She let the name slip off her tongue, but despite the brief memories there was nothing familiar about it. Same as there was nothing familiar about her mother the day she visited Hanna City ten years ago, shortly after her grandmother Tayshin died. It was almost unbelievable he should remember her.

“I just wanted to say hello, I guess. Maybe you would like to join me for another drink?”

“No, thanks. I've got some work to do, so...”

“Yeah. Yeah, I get it,” he said, a little embarrassed. “But anyway, Rhysa will be happy to know you're okay - given the circumstances.”

She scoffed. “Yeah, sure.”

Wexley squinted, obviously biting down a sarcastic remark. Before the situation could get any more awkward, he said, “It was good to see you.” He patted her elbow gently and retreated.

Kaz chewed on her tongue, her curiosity getting the better of her. She called after him, “Hey!” The man turned over his shoulder, eyebrows raised.

“What are you doing on Akiva anyway?”

Wexley stopped, his mouth twitching. “Looking for people who want to make a difference. You interested?”

She gave him an acknowledging nod. Although she was oblivious to the truth inside his ominous answer - certain Wexley was there to recruit more pilots for the New Republic Defense Fleet, against which she still harbored ill feelings - she wavered.

Neglecting her aching heart, she said, “One Maxa is enough, trust me.”

Kaz left Pok's Place as confused thoughts plagued her mind, not noticing the other pair of watchful eyes that followed her every movement since she joined Tommet Sozach for a drink.

The moment the door slid shut behind her, the figure to which the eyes belonged reached for a comlink, a signal tracker beeping steadily in their pocket.


End file.
